


Have Some Faery Dust, Motherfucker

by livthelion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hiatus, M/M, SOON., Slightly Canon Divergent after S1, werewolf!Lydia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livthelion/pseuds/livthelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek gets turned into a Not-So-Sourwolf and an extremely reluctant Stiles falls in love with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Faeries Wear Boots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daecyan_Shikoba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daecyan_Shikoba/gifts).



> This is for Dae, who is not only amazing but gifted me an equally amazing fic, [How Do I Live Without the Ones I Love?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/589588) She didn't actually want it, but I'm force-gifting her. (jk jk c:)
> 
> This fic was another of those impulses brought about by Satan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title 'Fairies Wear Boots' taken from the song of the same name by Black Sabbath. (All-time favorite btw)

“Stilinski,” Derek barks when Stiles—idiotically—makes an attempt to sneak past him and duck into another store.

Stiles pretends not to see him and, okay, not the best plan. Derek is kind of hard to miss with his face and the leather jacket and that air of superiority he somehow manages to put out even while wading uncomfortably through a sea of hormones.

Stiles makes a last-ditch effort to dodge him, but Derek steps directly in his path and smacks a hand down on his shoulder, keeping him from running.

“Where’s Scott,” Derek grunts. There’s a question in there, Stiles knows it.

He does an awkward wave thing and says, “Oh, hey… buddy. Didn’t see you there,” deciding that playing dumb is probably his best hope for survival. “How’ve you been? Fur’s looking nice,” Stiles notes.

Not that he’s checking out Derek’s hair or anything. He’s not, it’s just… _there_.

Derek glares at him—and oh god, is that a fang, that is a fang, that is multiple fangs—and tightens his grip.

“Really, uh, shiny,” Stiles squeaks, babbling now because self-preservation, what’s that? “Healthy sheen and all that. What do you use? Mane and Tail? Fur and Tail?” Derek lets out a low growl that has the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. “S-Scott, you said?” he asks, voice cracking. He clears his throat and tries again. “I dunno where he is, have you tried calling him?”

Derek’s lips press together in a cold smile, a knowing gleam in his eye.

“Lie.”

-

“Jesus, how the hell did you even find me? I was in a mall full of people for fuck’s sake!” Stiles whines as Derek hauls him to his jeep by the scruff of his neck.

Derek doesn’t answer—why would he, it’s not like he basically just kidnapped Stiles or anything—just shoves him into his seat and stalks around to the passenger’s side.

“What, you’re not gonna strap me in?” Stiles mutters. Derek shoots him a look and goes back to ignoring him.

“I told Scott. I  _told_  him. Does he listen? No. I go around saying these things for my fucking health,” Derek grumbles as he angrily scrolls through-

“Hey, that’s my phone!”

Derek glares at him.

“I can share,” Stiles says quickly.

“Scott. Pick up your fucking phone. I’m holding your annoying sidekick hostage. Stop stalking your ex or whatever it is you do nowadays and get to the preserve or Stilinski starts losing fingers. There’s business that needs tending to.”

Stiles manages to keep his indignation internalized until Derek ends the call. Barely.

 _“Sidekick?_  I am  _no one’s_  sidekick, asshole,” Stiles informs him. “And what ‘business?’ What are you even talking about?” Derek opens his mouth and Stiles throws up his hand and cuts him off. “Nuh! Never mind, don’t tell me. I’m not getting involved this time. No, sir. I am out. I am  _through!_  I’m through with your little group of misfits, I don’t want the leather jacket, thanks, but no thanks.”

Derek’s eyebrows are doing that thing where they’re simultaneously judging him and calling him a moron.

“No,” Stiles says.

Derek stares at him.

“Done,” Stiles reiterates.

He starts fidgeting in his seat because Derek isn’t moving

“Feel free to go now,” Stiles says, his voice so foolishly hopeful.

-

“Fucking werewolves,” Stiles mutters as he follows Derek through the woods, stumbling over rocks and fallen branches and his own two feet. “Hey, asshole! You get that not all of us have the handy, built-in night vision, right?”

Derek makes an angry noise and stops.

“That’s right, bitch,” Stiles smirks, strolling over to the werewolf with a little skip in his step.

He’s thinking to himself what a glorious night it is—it’s nice out, he isn’t dead, and yeah, Derek had kidnapped him, but all that really meant is that High and Mighty Alpha Hale needs him, the useless human, for something—when he trips over a root (damn thing came out of  _nowhere)_ and nearly lands on top of a particularly pointy-looking rock.

Fortunately, Derek catches him by the back of his hoodie and helps him regain his balance.

Unfortunately, Derek then takes the opportunity to slam him face-first into a tree.

“Oww, what the  _fuck,_ man?” Stiles groans, rubbing at his forehead and blinking bright, little white dots from his vision.

Derek doesn’t even try to sound convincing when he grunts, “Hand slipped, accident.” He shoulders past Stiles. “Bitch.”

“Oh, ho, ho. I see how it’s gonna be.”

Stiles jogs after him until he’s a few paces behind, not wanting to be within arm’s reach no matter how futile the attempt to stay out of harm’s—harm’s meaning Derek’s—way may be. “And after all I’m doing for you, helping track down a squatter when I could be out-”

“You mean at home,” Derek corrects.

“With my friends-”

“By yourself.”

“Having a good time-”

“Crying yourself to sleep.”

Stiles snorts. Who knew Sourwolf had a sense of humor hidden under all that fur. “Yeah, like you’re any better. Tell me, do you actually know anyone that isn’t an emotionally damaged, teenage werewo-”

Derek pushes him against a nearby tree and shoves a hand over his mouth, cutting him off mid-word. _“Shh.”_

Stiles gurgles indignantly against his palm, clawing at Derek’s arm until Derek hisses, _“Jesus Christ, Stiles, would you just shut the fuck up.”_

“No, the fuck I won’t,” Stiles says, or rather attempts to say, though it mostly sounds like “Blrrghgrmm,” as it is muffled by Derek’s hand. Stiles is pretty sure Derek gets the message, though, if the murderous look he’s giving is anything to go by.

It isn’t until Derek impatiently flicks his free hand towards a thick copse of trees that Stiles understands and stops struggling.

They’ve found their trespasser.

Derek releases him once he goes still and takes a few steps back. _Stay here,_  he mouths, turning to leave.

Stiles latches onto his arm, shaking his head violently. No way is he staying by himself. He isn’t stupid, okay; he knows what happens to the people that split up in horror movies. And look at his life! It’s as close to a horror movie as it can get!

Derek growls, but it’s a sound of defeat. He shakes Stiles’ hand off and motions for him to follow.

Wise of him; Stiles isn’t one for accepting his losses. Not quietly at least.

They creep towards the light, Derek in front, Stiles close behind.

“Take your time, darlings,” a woman calls out. “I’ve nowhere to be until midnight.”

Stiles aims an accusing look over at Derek like, _how the fuck did she know we were here, you’re supposed to be on top of this shit,_ but Derek doesn’t notice, he’s too busy nodding to himself like all of his suspicions have been confirmed (which, nice, Stiles hadn’t even known there _were_  suspicions to be confirmed).

“Fae,” Derek mutters.

“Her name is Fae?” Stiles asks incredulously. “You  _know_  her?”

Derek rolls his eyes like Stiles has said something dumb again. “That’s what she  _is_ _.”_

Stiles trips over nothing. “A  _faerie?”_

“What gave me away, darling?” the woman— _faerie—_ chirps.

Derek glowers at him like, _goddammit, Stiles, can’t you keep your mouth shut for five seconds, I’m the Alpha, grr_ or something along those lines. It’s mostly guesswork, but Stiles feels that his interpretation is accurate.

The woman is sitting on a wooden throne when they step into the clearing, legs crossed regally. (Stiles notes with mild fascination that apparently faeries wear combat boots. This shouldn’t surprise him; he knows an entire pack of werewolves with a leather fetish). She stands gracefully upon their entrance, her nifty little throne popping out of existence beneath her, and Stiles finally gets a good look at her.

His jaw drops. _“Holy shit.”_

Derek’s glower becomes more pronounced, but Stiles barely even sees it because _holy shit,_ she’s fucking _heavenly._

There’s a voice in the back of his head (the logical one, the one he usually ignores) whispering something about _glamours_ and _illusions_ because she’s almost  _too_  hot. It’s a little unreal.

The faerie smiles at them, moonlight glinting off her perfect - if a little sharp - white teeth and her red (unnatural, Little Mermaid-like, red) hair, and Stiles forgets all that. Not real? Who cares, not Stiles.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he breathes. Derek glares and Stiles shrugs back at him like, _what? She’s hot._

The werewolf rolls his eyes and refocuses his glare on the woman. “You’re trespassing, Faerie,” he growls. “State your business.”

“And your name,” Stiles adds. “And number.”

Derek puts a hand on his shoulder. And squeezes. If Stiles  _had_  let out a whimper of pain, it would’ve been a really masculine one.

The faerie draws herself up taller, and says, “I am-” followed by a series of complicated sounds that Stiles  _thinks_  are supposed to be words, but he can never really be too sure with all of these—supposed—mythical creatures, “-Phouka, Nisse god dräng.”

Stiles glances over at Derek, who looks just as confused as Stiles feels.

The faerie sees their blank expressions and sighs. “I’m your  _faerie godmother_ , darling,” she clarifies, giving Derek a wide smile.

“Boo, why do  _you_  get a faerie godmother,” Stiles grumbles. Derek’s face says he’s wondering the same thing. And is also suspicious, but then that’s normal for Derek, isn’t it.

Stiles turns to the faerie, brightening as the implications of what she'd said fully resonate. “So, uh…what’re we talking here? Three wishes? A pumpkin-coach and a dog for a footman?”

So, he might’ve watched Cinderella a few (hundred) times as a child (teenager) (last week), so what.

“It’s a yes to the ball gown, but I don’t think the glass heels are really his style.” Stiles not-so-subtly checks out Derek’s legs.

He may have been too hasty in his judgment.

Derek ignores his antics, eyeing the woman distrustfully. “I didn’t catch your name,” he says.

Stiles claps him on his unreasonably firm chest. “Ignore my friend, here, he never made it to the manners portion of his training.”

The faerie laughs. “It’s alright. Besides, it’s the housebreaking that’s most important,” she says with a wink.

Stiles guffaws until Derek turns his furious gaze on him, snarling. Stiles shuffles his feet and mumbles something vaguely apologetic while the faerie watches them, an amused twinkle in her eye.

“As for my name,” she says, “You can call me Robin.”

“Pretty name for a pretty lady,” Stiles says dreamily.

Derek frowns at him. “Stiles.”

Stiles manages to get out, “Quick question, Robin. Can I be your Batman?” before Derek grabs him by the arm and shoves Stiles behind him. Derek glares and motions for Robin to start talking.

The faerie purses her lips. “Unfortunately, I can’t give you three wishes or a ball gown; that’s not quite how this works.”

“That’s a shame. Derek could’ve been the prettiest princess ever,” Stiles coos, reaching over to pinch Derek’s cheek.

Derek bats his hand away and flashes his eyes in warning. Stiles laughs nervously and mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key. They both know it can’t possibly last, but it seems to appease Derek for the moment.

“Why are you here,” he asks the woman.

“I’m here to give you what you need most,” she replies enigmatically.

Derek growls in frustration. “Stop speaking in riddles, Faerie.”

“You would do well to mind your tone, Alpha Hale.” The warning in her words is clear, but her doting smile never dims.

“You know who I am,” Derek’s own smile is vicious, more a baring of teeth than an actual smile, “which means that you knew you were encroaching on Pack territory. If I wanted to, I could kill you where you stand and not even the ordinances of the Fae would be able to find fault in my actions.”

The air around the faerie seems to crackle, her expression turning into something sinister for just an instant and then she’s once again smiling, though there’s a sharper edge to it now than there had been before.

“You’re an angry one, aren’t you?” she says lazily. “What  _ever_  is the matter, dearest?”

Derek opens his mouth, probably to insult the  _clearly_  old-and-powerful-as-shit faerie, but she holds up a hand and he stills, eyes wide in alarm.

“I’ll take a look for myself, if you don’t mind,” Robin doesn’t really ask as she raises a hand and crooks her fingers at Derek.

Stiles wonders what the hell she’s doing, but then he sees Derek walking towards her, movements strange, halted, as if he’s-

Not in control of his movements, yeah. Cool. This is exactly what Stiles needs right now.

Derek takes the final steps and comes to a halt less than a foot away from the faerie.

“Hold still, darling,” she says, as if Derek has a choice.

She leans in, eyes boring into Derek’s, gold burning into red, and Stiles watches, bouncing from foot to foot, unsure of what to do.

After a long moment, the faerie claps her hands together in delight. “I see the problem, now. It’s those memories of yours that are giving you trouble.” Robin wags an elegant finger at the werewolf and tuts disapprovingly as if Derek’s not glaring back like he would love nothing more than to disembowel her where she stands. “I’ll get rid of those pesky, little nightmares for you, darling,” she chirps, pulling a wand out of thin air (like in Cinderella!) and brandishing it like a sword. “All it takes is a flick of the wrist!”

“That’s usually all it takes for me, too,” Stiles says under his breath, because potentially dangerous situation or not, he can’t just _pass up_ such a blatant opening.

The faerie hears and seems to find this amusing. She shakes her head, smiling indulgently.

“Cute.”

She snaps her fingers and Stiles finds himself unable to move.

Her smile becomes contrite. “Sorry, dear. A necessary precaution. Can’t have you interrupting.” She focuses her attention on Derek. “Steel yourself, wolf. I’ve been told this can be painful.” She pauses and thinks about it. “Then again, I suppose it doesn't matter. You won’t remember a thing,” she says, laughing. Derek snarls.

And then Robin’s chanting, waving her wand around as— _seriously?—_ glittery dust falls and turns into shimmering tendrils of light that wrap themselves around Derek. He’s twitching like mad, probably struggling to get away, but the faerie’s hold must be unbreakable because he doesn’t manage much more than that.

Stiles tries yelling at the psychotic faerie to stop, and finds his voice isn’t working either. He sends a silent apology to Derek and hopes that if they get out of this, Derek doesn’t murder him for being completely useless. Not that any of this is actually his fault. This was all Derek, through and through.

Still, Stiles doesn’t think that Derek deserves this. No matter how much of a dick he is.

Derek looks at him right before the tendrils start covering his face, shooting inside his mouth, up his nose, through his ears. It’s not long before all Stiles can see are his eyes, wide with fear, and then not even that.

Once Derek has been fully encompassed, the light turns blinding and Stiles is knocked over, falling backwards onto surprisingly soft earth—

-

When he wakes he’s on the ground, ears ringing and vision white. On the grand scale of things, this whole situation is leaning towards the  _not good_  end of the spectrum. He wonders if his dad is looking for him. Probably not. He has the late shift tonight and Stiles is supposed to be out with friends. His dad had been pleased when Stiles told him he had plans (see, Dad, I can be normal, too).

And look where Stiles ends up even when he’s trying to pretend he’s normal. Stiles laughs. But internally because he still can’t move/make sounds.

He regains his senses an indeterminate amount of time later and sees Derek standing a few feet away, smiling and looking stoned out of his mind.

Stiles finds that his voice is working again, as are his limbs. He pushes himself to his feet and staggers over to the Alpha. “Derek?” he says, voice hoarse like it hasn’t been used in days. “You okay there, buddy?”

Derek directs his smile at him, slurring, “Jus gonna take a nap, mmm s’that?” and falls face first into the dirt, unconscious before he hits the ground.

Stiles, understandably, panics. “Derek!”

The wolf doesn’t stir.

Holy shit. Holy  _shit,_  is he  _dead?_

“Don’t worry, dear, he’s fine.”

Fan-fucking-tastic.

The faerie is still there, just hanging out on her suddenly-there-again throne, watching Derek’s prone form with a satisfied smile. Stiles shudders.

Creepy.

He composes himself, and tries for polite because Derek was kind of being an ass and look where that got him.

“Uhm, may I ask what the fuck you did to him?” Okay, not as polite as he’d been going for, but still salvageable. “Because, see, he’s kind of important to his pack and I would rather not be murdered by his cronies for returning their Alpha in less than perfect condition.”

“I’ve rid him of a few unnecessary memories and the consequential guilt, is all,” the faerie assures him, looking pleased as fucking punch.

“Oh, is  _that_  all?” Stiles asks sarcastically, any pretense of civility flying out the window. “And how do you propose I tell him that his-” he throws a glance towards Derek and drops his voice to a whisper, “-entire family is  _dead_ , huh? Have you got enough of your fucking faerie dust to ease him into that one?!”

He blinks and the faerie is in front of him, patting his cheek in a motherly fashion. “I know you worry; your love for him is great. Fear not, child, I’ve taken care of it.” Stiles sputters at her uselessly while she quirks her head to the side, listening for  _something._  

“It’s nearly midnight, I’ve got to go. Farewell, darling,” she chirps, giving him another bright smile and starting to fucking vanish, her skin becoming more translucent by the second.

“I am a MAN, not a child, dammit!” Stiles squawks, pointing an accusing finger at the disappearing faerie. “And what the fuck do you mean, ‘my love for him is great?!’” he shouts at nothing. “I don’t have any love for Derek fucking Hale!”

He looks around wildly. “Robin? Ro- Aaand you’re gone,” he says to no one but himself. “Best faerie godmother _ever.”_

He hears a small groan come from the ground behind him and spins around to check on Derek.

Who is apparently alive and sitting up and rubbing his eyes in a way that is  _totally_  not adorable. Derek breaks into a wide smile when he catches sight of the human, eyes crinkling in a way that immediately has Stiles on edge.

Because Derek doesn’t _smile_ at Stiles. Derek _glares_ at Stiles and tells him to shut up! It’s the natural order of things!

“Stiles!” Derek’s on his feet in an instant and Stiles swears that he can practically see Not-So-Sourwolf’s tail wagging.

“Hey, uh, Derek.” Stiles holds his hands up to show Derek that he’s not armed, not dangerous because who knows what that batty faerie did when she was tinkering around in the guy’s mind?

He’s expecting a little more smiling, a little less anger. A little less violence towards Stiles would be nice, too, but Stiles will take what he’s given.

What he’s  _not_  expecting is an armful of Derek, but that’s what he gets as two hundred pounds of solid muscle crashes into him and buries its’ nose into his neck, making contented snuffling noises.

“Stiles, we like Stiles,” Derek says happily, squeezing Stiles tighter.

“Uhm, wha- Okay? Ow, ribs! Kind of need them whole and in place, dude,” he shoves at Derek’s chest where his hands have been trapped until Derek releases him, expression distraught.

“Sorry, Stiles. I forgot.”

“Forgot what?” Stiles snaps, angry for no reason at all except that he’s having a shitty night on top of his already shitty year/life. “That I’m not a stupid fucking werewolf?”

Derek dips his head and stares sadly at his feet like Stiles has just crushed his dreams and Stiles feels bad about it, even though this is the guy that used to shove him around and yell at him, call him an idiot and ask him why he was there, why he even bothered; he wasn’t a werewolf, their business didn’t concern him.

Sure, Stiles had done his fair share of name calling and undermining Derek’s authority by poking holes in his well-thought out plans (Sarcasm Alert) in front of the entire pack, but that was beside the point.

Derek whines, small and hurt, and Stiles feels himself caving.

He’s such a sucker.

Stiles heaves a sigh, dragging his fingers through his hair. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? I’m just freaking out over the whole- thing that just happened.” Derek looks up cautiously. “It’s, uh, it’s okay, big guy,” Stiles assures him, awkwardly patting his head.

Derek beams at him.

 _Beams_. At _Stiles._

It is  _highly_  unnatural.

Derek starts sniffing at him with this dopey expression, and Stiles starts panicking again.

Oh, man. There’s no way the pack isn’t blaming him for this.

“I’m just gonna c-call. Someone.” Stiles stammers.

He stumbles a little ways off and dials Scott’s number.

Who predictably doesn’t answer.

Stiles leaves a brief message telling Scott to call him back, already knowing that he probably won’t get back to him tonight because he’s a  _massive dick_  who apparently does not care whether or not Stiles loses a few digits or that he’s out in the woods with a known psycho-wolf in the middle of the night.

Not that Derek is his normal blood-thirsty self at the moment. Still. It’s the principal of the matter.

In his defense, Scott has actually gotten a lot better with answering his phone—and not hanging up right before Stiles got the chance to relay a crucial piece of information—for anyone that wasn’t Allison (namely, Stiles and and Isaac and the rest of Derek’s pack). He was just pissed at Stiles for totally annihilating him last night at Zombies and then spending the following hour and a half rubbing it in his face.

Stiles sighs and scrolls through his contact list, staring at numbers he hasn’t dialed in nearly half a year.

He can’t call Erica or Boyd; both would either laugh in his face or rip his throat out.

Or laugh in his face  _while_  ripping his throat out.

Stiles generally prefers his throat intact.

Isaac would be nicer about it, probably. He’s one of the only ones that doesn’t glare at Stiles whenever they make eye contact, but he probably wouldn’t know what to do with Derek. Danny would want a favor in return, even if it is his Alpha, and Stiles doesn’t like owing people. Jackson’s a douchelord. Just- just- no. Lydia is more than capable of keeping an eye on Derek, but she probably wouldn’t just because. (Or maybe she would, but Stiles isn’t ready for _that_ conversation, though).

He’ll have to take Derek home with him then.

Ugh.

Stiles sighs and shoves his phone into his pocket, letting his head fall back so that he can glare at the sky. Why is he such a good person?

A hand tentatively touches his shoulder and Stiles jumps back. “Sti-”

“God _dammit_ , Derek!” Stiles yells once his heart has stopped trying to pound its’ way from his chest. “What’d I tell you about that?” Which technically Stiles hadn’t told him anything of the sort, but Derek knows better than to sneak up on Stiles. Should know better.

Derek’s face crumples, shoulders sagging. “Sorry.”

Stiles groans, anger forgotten. Derek’s puppy eyes are worse than Scott’s.

“Let’s just- get you home, buddy,” he sighs.

It’s a good thing that Derek hasn’t lost his werewolf-mojo otherwise they’d be shit out of luck. Stiles sure as hell didn’t remember where they’d left the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain’s Log Feb. 12th 8:55 P.M. Why the fuck did I think ‘indignance’ was a word? In case you were wondering; it’s not a fucking word. I feel like my entire life has been a lie


	2. What grew (and inside who)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'How My Heart Behaves' by Feist
> 
> Short chapter but yes, I did it.  
> Let me know if you see any mistakes or anything  
> Don't yell at me, please. My fragile heart can't take any more  
> (That was joke, see. I have no heart)

Stiles sends Isaac a vague text in the morning, telling him to bring Boyd and the she-wolves. Isaac doesn’t answer, but he does show up a short while later, knocking on Stiles’ bedroom window.

Because naturally it’s  _all_ werewolves that don’t use doors, not just Scott and Derek.

Stiles goes to let him in and nearly falls on top of Derek when the Alpha leaps off his bed and crouches in front of him protectively, growling a warning at his startled beta.

Stiles rolls his eyes and nudges Derek out of the way with his foot, muttering, “Relax, Big Bad. It’s only one of your minions,” and unlatches the window to let in a harassed-looking Isaac while Derek harrumphs and skulks to the opposite side of the room to pout.

Isaac waves someone over, presumably Boyd and the she-wolves, and swings himself inside.

And then Derek tackles him.

Stiles has his lacrosse stick in hand, about to hit an apparently Once-Again-Sourwolf over the head, when he realizes that Derek isn’t actually hurting Isaac so much as cuddling and sniffing him within an inch of his life.

Isaac shoots Stiles a look that is simultaneously pleased and terrified. “Uhh, Stiles?” he squeaks, “What the hell is going on?”

“Well, you see, what had happened was,” Stiles begins. Isaac swears under his breath and gives him an exasperated look.

Stiles starts babbling. “Scott wouldn’t answer his phone, so your Alpha decided to kidnap me and force me to stumble around the preserve in the dark to help him find a trespasser, which we found, except it turned out to be Derek’s very own faerie godmother and Derek was being an asshole so she, like,  _Obliviated_  him and then-” he breaks off when he sees Derek’s other betas have let themselves in.

Erica takes one look at the bright smile on Derek’s face and starts screeching. “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU  _DO,_ STILINSKI?!”

Stiles instinctively backs away from her. “I didn’t do shit, it was the faerie!”

Surprisingly, she doesn’t take that very well.

Erica lunges at him, shrieking, “I’ll  _kill_  you!”

Boyd catches her by the waist with her claws inches away from Stiles’ face. He pulls Erica to his chest, and glares at the human balefully.

“Why are you looking at me as if this is my fault? This is not my fault!” Stiles points at them accusingly, “If anything, it’s  _your_ fault! Where the fuck were all of  _you_  last night? And where the hell is Lydia?” he asks belatedly, because he does believe he asked for _two_ she-wolves, not one. _“_ _Someone_  should be here to keep you people in line.”

Erica lunges again, snarling, and snaps her teeth at his finger.

Thankfully, Boyd is quick on his feet. He tugs Erica back to his chest and gives Stiles another disapproving look. “You’re not helping, Stilinski,” he says flatly.

“I’m just sayi-”

“Unless you want Erica to remove your lungs through your nose, I would suggest you keep your mouth shut.”

Stiles keeps his mouth shut.

-

Once they’re all relatively composed and seated, Stiles in his computer chair while those of the werewolf-persuasion have formed a puppy pile atop his bed—totally not as cute as it sounds—Stiles tells them everything that happened, including last night when Stiles had snuck Derek into his house and Derek had immediately fallen asleep (“On  _my_  bed! I had to sleep on the fucking floor, thanks to your inconsiderate, bed-hog of an Alpha. What the hell is that!”) while Stiles was looking for clothes large enough to fit him.

Derek had been impossible to wake and at first, Stiles had been worried, but seeing as Derek has spent most of the day sleeping and had fallen asleep again almost as soon as the puppy pile was formed, Stiles figures it’s some kind of after-effect of the magical brain-bleach.

“I’ve never seen him sleep,” Isaac says wonderingly.

Stiles raises his eyebrows, “You lived with him for a while.” In his  _hovel_ , he doesn’t add. “How have you not seen him sleep?”

Isaac shrugs. “He usually left at night. Well, the nights we weren’t being hunted and or getting wolfsbane bullets shot at us,” he says, voice dry.

Well, that’s kind of weird.

Stiles doesn’t know much about Derek. Even when he was considered pack, all he really knew about Derek was that his family died and Derek was a broody asshole. He hadn’t known if Derek was a broody asshole  _because_  his family died or if he’s always been a broody asshole  _and_  his family died.

Probably the former, given that Derek has pretty much done a complete 180° since Robin the Fae had done her magical memory swipe.

The faerie had said that she’d removed the memories that were causing Derek guilt. Why Derek had any reason to feel guilty about a hunter murdering his entire family, Stiles will most likely never know.

He shoves the thoughts from his mind. The betas are extracting themselves from the tangle of limbs, careful not to wake Derek, and grabbing their things—shoes and leather jackets; w _hy_ they’re wearing leather jackets when it’s ninety freaking degrees out, Stiles doesn’t understand.

Derek whines mournfully in his sleep, and rolls over, burying his head into Stiles’ favorite pillow. It is not cute.

“So, you guys are taking him with you, right?” Stiles asks brightly.

Erica snarls at him and pokes him hard in the chest.  _“You_  did this,  _you_ deal with it.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, I already told you: _faerie!_  Also, he’s your Alpha. So, y’know, you have to take care of him in the event that he’s been faerie mind-fucked.”

“That’s not an actual rule, Stiles,” Boyd says.

“Yeah, well, I can’t keep him here!”

“And why not?”

Stiles nearly chokes on the sheer stupidity of the question. “Dad?  _Sheriff?_  Hello! He might not be in the dark about all this werewolf crap anymore, but that doesn’t mean that he’d be okay with a twenty-four year old guy staying in his underage son’s bedroom, thank you. God, you think Derek would’ve gone with for betas with actual common sense instead of three insecure teenagers that barely have a brain cell to split between th- Umph,” Stiles falls out of his chair, clutching at where Erica has just now punched him in the gut.

“Oh my god,” he groans.

Erica leans in, smirking. “You were saying?”

“You’re all evil,” Stiles moans pathetically.

“We’ll be back to check on him sometime in the next few days,” Isaac calls cheerfully over his shoulder as they walk to Stiles’ window. And Stiles had thought that Isaac was the nice one of the bunch. Obviously, he was  _wrong._  “We’ll call if we hear anything.”

“Wait, I still can’t ke-keep him here,” Stiles wheezes, dragging himself back to his chair.

“Not our problem.” Erica leaps gracefully from his window, followed by Isaac.

Boyd pauses on the ledge, “Call us if anything… wolf-related comes up,” Stiles opens his mouth to protest but Boyd cuts him off with a look. “If it’s not wolf-related, don’t call.” And then he’s gone, too.

Stiles sighs and drags his hands over his face. “Why is this happening?” he groans. Derek smiles happily in his sleep.

-

Scott comes by a day later, two days after the night of Faerie Fuckery (and seriously? It took him two fucking days? Stiles could’ve been dead! He could’ve been murdered by the angry hand of Sourwolf!)

“Dude!” is what Scott opens with, smiling widely and completely oblivious to Stiles’ inner turmoil.

“Oh, so you remember where I live, now?” Stiles asks bitingly.

“Huh? What are you talking about, man?” Scott asks, confused.

Stiles sighs and decides to let it go, repeating things like,  _best friends_ and  _I love Scott, really, I do,_ in his mind to keep himself from spiking Scott’s drink with wolfsbane or stabbing him in the face with a fork just because he knows it’ll heal.

“Nothing, forget it. What’s up, bro?” Stiles asks.

“Well, I went by Derek’s house because I was supposed to help him with this thing-”

“That was two days ago, Scott,” Stiles reminds him through gritted teeth.

Scott scrunches up his face and thinks about it. “Oh, yeah,” he laughs and Stiles has to fight back the urge to wrap his hands around his stupid neck and squeeze the life out of him. “So, like I was  _saying,_ ” as if Stiles were being rude, “I went by the house and dude! I know Derek’s been talking about remodeling, but I didn’t think he’d already found someone to do it. It’s pretty fucking sweet.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Derek’s house! It’s completely rebuilt! I sent you a picture, didn’t you get it?” Scott asks, eyebrows drawn in confusion.

“No, I was busy keeping an eye on D-  Wait, there’s no way his house is-” Stiles gasps as realization strikes.

 _The_   _faerie._

Stiles sprints up the stairs, dimly aware of Scott following him, and scrolls through his phone, pulling up the picture.

Shit.

SHIT.

 _“Shit."_ Derek’s house has been completely restored to all its’ former glory.

“What, what is it? You look worried,” Scott frets.

Stiles just stares at him. “I am truly amazed at how your brain works. Or rather how it  _doesn’t._ ” And okay, he’s being a little rude, but Scott doesn’t even look as though he caught the insult so, Stiles figures there’s no harm done. “Tell me, did it seem natural to you that Derek’s house was suddenly all fixed up?”

Scott shrugs. “Sure, why n-”

Stiles cuts him off impatiently, “When was the last time you were over there, Scott?”

“Uhh, like four, five days ago?”

“And you think that it takes five days to repair a house of that size,” Stiles says, voice flat.

“Uhh, no?” Scott says, uncertain.

“No, Scott. It takes a lot longer than that,” Stiles says slowly.

“Oh, so…” Scott looks completely lost.

Stiles throws up his hands. “Why do I surround myself with idiots?” he asks the ceiling.

Scott ignores his outburst, apparently barely noticing that Derek is asleep. On his bed. Wrapped up in his blankets and now cuddling the shit out of his favorite pillow, Stiles notes with exasperation.

“Dude, what the _fuck?”_ Scott yelps.

Stiles smacks his arm and hisses, “Shut the hell up! Do you want him to  _eat_ us?”

Scott’s stunned expression falters and melts into a knowing smirk.

“So, when did, uh, when did this start happening?” Scott asks, nodding towards Derek and waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Stiles blinks. “Huh?” he says brilliantly.

Scott levels him a disappointed look that says, _you’re making this more difficult than it has to be,_ and Stiles is confused because a) that’s _his_ face, why is Scott wearing it? and b) he doesn’t know what the hell Scott is talking about.

“You could’ve just told me, bro,” Scott says with a wry smile.

“Told you _what?”_ Stiles snaps.

“And shit, he looks happy, too.” Which is obviously something worth noting because real-Derek _literally_ never looks happy. Scott’s smile turns sly. “Wasn’t your dad home last night, dude?”

“What are you-? Oh, God NO!” Stiles says, eyes filled with (unwanted) understanding and horror. “Shut up, Scott!”

“Stiles is a freeeeak!” Scott sings.

Stiles places a hand on his forehead and squeezes his eyes tight, telling himself to wake up, wake up, this is a fucking nightmare.

Scott places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay, Stiles, I accept you. And Derek. Like together,” he clarifies.

Stiles is about to start yelling at him because what? Seriously, _no. Worlds_ of _no._

But then Scott says, “Maybe things will be better now,” so quiet that he almost misses it, and Stiles freezes.

Better meaning that Stiles will stop avoiding the pack—minus Scott because, all dick-ish behavior aside, they’re bros for life—like the plague and stop pretending to be a normal human who has normal, human friends and knows nothing about the supernatural and hasn’t killed or almost been killed so many times that he’s lost count and no, it’s not that simple.

Scott is looking at him, earnest and hopeful, and Stiles starts to get that vaguely nauseous feeling that appears whenever he starts thinking about this.

He forces the thoughts from his mind, and decides that it’s time for Scott to go. He can come back when Derek is up and ready to handle this shit himself, and if he can’t, then Stiles will call Lydia. 

Even though he really, really, really isn’t ready for that conversation yet.

“Yeah, no. Derek and I aren’t-” Stiles forces the word out, “-together. Derek is staying-”

“In your bed,” Scott interjects, smiling.

 _“In my bed_  because he’s sick.” Scott’s eyebrows shoot up and Stiles nods solemnly. “Yeah, flu. Nasty business. Highly contagious.”

“Then why aren’t you getting sick?” Scott asks.

Shit. He forgets sometimes that Scott isn’t actually an idiot.

“It’s a special strain. Only werewolves can contract it.” Stiles tamps down the urge to fist pump at his brilliant lie. 

Scott makes a face of disgust, totally buying it. “Dude! And you let me come in here?” He covers his mouth and nose.

Stiles bites back a laugh. Scott may not be an idiot, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t gullible.

“Well, I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer.” He sighs heavily. “It really is too bad, though. He’s so young.” He casts what he hopes is a forlorn look towards Derek’s sleeping form.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Scott asks.

“It’s… pretty serious,” Stiles says. “He might not make it through the night.”

Scott stares at Derek uncertainly. “But he looks so happy?”

“It’s the fever. He’s completely delirious.” Stiles shakes his head morosely.

Derek snarls happily in his sleep, adding nicely to Stiles’ story.

Scott’s expression turns into one of abject horror. “Oh my  _God_. I- I’m gonna go, I’ll call you later!” he shouts as he dives for the window.

“Leaving so soon?” Stiles calls after him, gleeful. He probably should feel bad for lying, but eh, Scott’ll figure it out eventually.

He turns to Derek, planning on waking him up and forcing him to eat since he hasn’t stayed awake long enough for a meal in the last two days, and gets distracted by the way Derek is smiling in his sleep. He’s been doing a lot of that lately and Stiles hasn’t really thought much of it—besides thinking it’s weird—but now that he’s paying attention, he notices how young Derek looks like this, innocent, untouched by all the grief and violence that real-Derek has experienced. He looks…nice.

Derek shifts in his sleep and Stiles starts, realizing that he’s been staring at Derek and thinking about how nice he looks when he smiles like a huge creeper and that just won’t do. He and Derek are enemies _._

 _Mortal_  enemies.

He jerks the pillow from beneath Derek’s head in annoyance, and hugs it to his chest.  _“My_  pillow,” he mumbles, because Stiles has reverted to his two-year old self.

“‘tiles?” Derek slurs sleepily, rolling over and kicking off the blankets and stretching and  _Jesus H. Christ_  when did he take his shirt off, Stiles doesn’t remember him having his shirt off; it’s not hot, Sourwolf shouldn’t feel the need to prance around without his shirt, alright!

Or lay in Stiles’ bed without his shirt, _same fucking difference._

“Who’s that?” Derek asks around a yawn.

“Scott,” Stiles answers absentmindedly—definitely not distracted by Derek and his muscles (although they are ridiculous)— and Derek nods, but there’s no sign of recognition at the name. “You don’t remember him?” Stiles asks, curious.

Derek shrugs. “Smells like pack, but no, not really.”

“Did you recognize any of the ones that were here yesterday?” Derek shakes his head. “What about Lydia? Jackson? Danny?”

“Who’re they?” Derek asks.

Stiles scrubs a hand over his face tiredly. “Lydia’s your second, Head Beta and all that. Jackson is another Beta, and Danny is one of the pack humans.”

Derek thinks it over and slowly shakes his head. “I can’t- I don’t know them.”

“But you remembered me,” Stiles says, recalling how Derek had immediately known who he was, even after he’d been zapped. Derek nods. “Weird.”

Derek laughs, the sound doing things to Stiles that he’s not willing to acknowledge (confusing things, _frightening_ things) and rolls his eyes almost playfully. “Not that weird.”

Stiles is abruptly confused. “What? Dude, it’s  _totally_  fucking weird.”

Derek sighs as if Stiles is being unnecessarily difficult and gets to his feet. He stretches again, and god, is that actually necessary, how many times a day does a person need to stretch, really? Stiles feels his face heating and he tears his eyes away from Derek’s—admittedly impressive—form, but not before he catches the werewolf’s smirk.

He turns towards his desk, clearing his throat. “So, uh, how’re you feeling, buddy?” Stiles asks in a forced casual tone as he leans over the desk and logs onto his computer not noticing Derek walking towards him. “Any headaches or nausea or-  _Holy shit.”_

Derek is behind him, plastered against his back, nosing at his neck and is that tongue- YEP, that’s a tongue on Stiles’ throat.

“What’re you doing?” Stiles chokes out, his face violently red.

Derek doesn’t answer, just puts a hand on his chest, the other on his hip, drawing him closer and Stiles is paralyzed, can’t think of a single word to say probably for the first time in his life. Derek’s hand slides up from his chest to gently cradle his jaw and Stiles doesn’t know why he closes his eyes and just lets Derek pull his mouth down to his and kiss him, all open-mouthed and hot.

Stiles hadn’t imagined his first real kiss this way (a drunken makeout—or five—with Scott doesn’t count; section 4, article B of the Code of Brethren). He’d always imagined it with- well, Lydia if he was being completely honest, though he’d given up that dream a while ago. Derek Hale isn’t an option. Wasn’t an option. Should not have been an option. 

Derek Hale who he’s not even friends with and doesn’t even  _like_.

But here he is, making out with Beacon Hills’ very own Alpha and Stiles doesn’t want him to stop. He wants to ignore the little voice in the back of his head and just let Derek have his filthy way with him.

But it’s  _not_  Derek, not really, his brain reminds him (and since when does that even matter?) Stiles snaps out of it immediately.

He breaks the kiss and shrugs Derek’s hands off. “What was that even?” he asks, shrilly, gesturing wildly.

Derek’s eyebrows are drawn in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You!” Stiles shakes a finger at him. “You  _kissed_  me!”

Derek takes a step towards him, stops when Stiles shrinks away. He makes a hurt sound in the back of his throat. “Stiles, why are you running away from me?”

_“You kissed me!”_

Derek’s eyebrows straighten out and his voice takes on a dry quality. “Well, we are dating.”

Stiles freezes.

“What.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log Feb. 24th 3:11A.M. Bff #66 likes to tell me that she's going to break into my house and shave my head in my sleep and then make my hair into a wig because my hair would look so much better on her. 
> 
> It's times like these I am grateful that I hardly sleep (and wonder why I have creepy ass friends)


	3. Oh, now you are a handful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from ‘The Stand’ by Mother Mother
> 
> Hi  
> Long time :)  
> Just a friendly reminder:  
> I like parenthesis. And cursing.

Because Stiles is a reasonable person, he sits Derek down and very calmly explains that in no way are he and Derek dating.

That is to say, he shoves Derek away from him and screams at him, using phrases like, “No way in _hell,”_ and “Never,” and “What the fuck makes you think we’re together, because _no.”_

Derek stares at his hands in his lap, and frowns. It’s not even his usual ‘I don’t think you understand just how tortured my soul is’ frown. Just a normal frown.

_FUCKING WEIRD._

“Oh. It’s just- I could’ve _sworn_.”

Stiles is vehemently shaking his head before Derek even finishes speaking. “No.”

“Are you sure? I remember… things. Kind of.”

Stiles stomach clenches in terror. “No. No. No. You remember nothing because there is nothing to remember.”

“I guess it’s not memories… exactly.” Derek’s face is the picture of concentration, eyes darting like his thoughts are trying to get away from him. “Just a feeling,” he continues in the same halted tone. “In the back of my skull. It feels like you’re important to me.”

And of course, Stiles thinks, resigned. Of course the first time someone reasonably attractive—or really, super unreasonably attractive, Stiles has eyes, okay—is into him it would have to be because of magic. No one in their right mind would like Stiles of their own volition. That would just be madness.

Not that this is necessarily a bad thing. Magic clears all this nonsense right the fuck up—namely, the part where Derek had just felt him up and shoved his tongue down Stiles’ throat… which he is resolutely not thinking about.

“We are not, in _any_ way, shape or form, together nor have we ever been anywhere close to being together,” Stiles says, probably louder than necessary. _“Ever,”_ he adds, just in case he wasn’t clear enough the first ten times.

Derek hunches over, nodding his understanding from his perch on the edge of Stiles’ bed, eyes big and sad as he continues to study Stiles’ carpet. And god, he really is sad about this, over _Stiles._

It strikes him that real-Derek’s either gonna be super pissed or super embarrassed when he realizes what he’s done.

Stiles struggles to hold back the near-hysterical laughter he can feel bubbling up in his chest. He’s looking forward to that. God knows he’ll need a laugh after all of this mess.

He allows himself a small grin before he sits down next to Derek, patting his knee companionably—something real-Derek would’ve never let him do. “How about we get you something to eat. You must be starving.”

Derek rubs his stomach absently and nods. “I could eat.”

-

Understatement. That was the most ridiculous understatement Stiles has ever heard in his life. Derek literally ate the entire contents of his fridge and then whined until Stiles ordered a couple of pizzas for “them.”

Stiles did not get a single slice of that pizza. Stiles got to watch in awestruck horror as Derek took the phrase ‘wolfed down’ to a whole ‘nother level.

Now, Derek is lazily pawing at his (somehow still flat) stomach and eyeing Stiles’ couch.

“Oh, hell no. Don’t you even _think_ about taking a nap right now.”

“But, _Stiles,”_ Derek whines.

Stiles folds his arms and glares at him. “Don’t ‘but, Stiles’ _me_ , pal.” Stiles is not thinking about how much he’s channeling his father right now. Stiles is putting his foot down. Now that Derek is finished consuming every bit of food he can (in)humanly force inside of his stomach, they have things they have to do.

Like restocking the fridge before his dad gets off work and wonders what the hell happened to all of their food.

Fun.

-

The trip to the store is uneventful yet weird as _fuck._

It’s weird because there’s no uncomfortable silence filled only by Stiles’ half-frightened, mostly sarcastic rambling.

It’s weird because Derek is chatting happily at Stiles while they drive to the market (Stiles can’t even comprehend most of what is coming out of Derek’s mouth; he’s much too busy trying not to crash his car).

It’s weird because Derek is walking through the store giving a polite smile and nod to everyone they pass.

Who does that? _No one_ , that’s who, and especially not Derek ‘if I could kill you with my eyebrows alone, _believe_ _me_ , I would’ Hale.

He follows Stiles through the aisles, proverbial tail wagging (not his real tail, thank God), only stopping once to help a little old lady get something off one of the high shelves.

Stiles shits you not.

He has to hide his snickers behind his hand while he watches Derek blush in embarrassment as the elderly woman pinches his cheek, telling him what a “nice young man,” he is.

Not the cheek on his face either.

Derek is still standing where the old bitty left him—but not before giving him a saucy wink—looking a bit lost when Stiles finally takes pity on him and decides it’s time to head home. “Come on, lover boy,” he smirks. He grabs Derek by the arm and tows him to the front of the store.

The teller rings them up quickly for which Stiles is grateful. It’s not long until his dad gets off shift and Stiles likes having a healthy (“Enough with the rabbit food, Stiles, I need _meat”)_ meal on the table for him by the time he gets home.

Stiles gets his wallet out to pay for the groceries, but Derek shoulders him out of the way and hands the cashier a few bills before Stiles can protest.

“What the hell was that?” Stiles asks as they make their way towards his jeep.

Derek side eyes him, but doesn’t answer.

He does, however, turn an interesting shade of pink.

“Oh GOD,” Stiles groans. “Was that _chivalry?_ That was chivalry, wasn’t it. Derek, I already told you-”

“I know we’re not together,” Derek interrupts quickly. “I was just. I ate all of your food, right?” He gives Stiles an unconvincing smile. “It only makes sense that I pay to replace it.”

“Right. Okay. As long as you get that we’re not.” Stiles gestures between the two of them vaguely.

“I understand,” Derek says not meeting his eyes.

Stiles ignores the way Derek’s slumped shoulders and the unhappy curve to his mouth makes his chest tighten.

He cranks the radio up and leaves it blaring the entire ride home. It still feels like an awkward silence.

-

Lydia is curled up in his bed when they get back from the store.

Derek, who is already on edge—he’d gone all alert guard dog when they pulled up to the house; Stiles had only barely managed to convince Derek that no, he really did not need to climb through the window when he could just use the perfectly good _front door—_  goes stiff and starts growling when he sees her.

Stiles supposes it’s a natural response to an unfamiliar werewolf being in—what is _temporarily—_ His Territory, but then Derek says, “What the hell is she doing in your bed?” all accusing and hurt and Stiles is starting to think that Derek isn’t really getting that there isn’t anything going on between him and Stiles.

Lydia rolls her eyes and stretches leisurely, dragging herself up so she’s propped against the headboard. “Well, I _was_ taking a nap while waiting for the two of you to get back. Jet lag is a bitch.” They exchange a significant look, doing that creepy silent werewolf communication thing, and some of the tension leaves Derek’s stance, though he still looks a little irritated.

Lydia’s eyes flick over to him. “Stiles. Long time no see.” Her tone makes her disapproval clear.

Stiles drops his gaze, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking on his heels. “What are you talking about? We’ve only been on break for, like, a week.”

“We got out of school in May, Stiles.”

“Uh huh.” That’s what he said, isn’t it.

“It’s July.”

Was it? Stiles shrugs. Time flies when you’re having a good time, right? he snorts.

“Not that we saw much of you at school anyways,” Lydia continues, crossing her arms and glaring, more hurt than angry. “What with your _new_ friends.”

Stiles winces.

The last of Derek’s irritation has gone now, replaced by a sudden sense of awkwardness. “I’m gonna… go put away the groceries.”

Stiles watches his quickly retreating back. “I should help. He doesn’t know where everything goes-”

“He can handle it,” Lydia snaps, eyes flashing. She takes a calming breath and tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ve been meaning to come by to see you, but they convinced me not to.” There’s no need for her to clarify who ‘they’ are. “Scott said you’d start coming around again when you were ready.”

“Lyds-”

“That was nearly half a year ago, Stiles.”

“It’s been a few months, yeah,” Stiles says, fidgeting under her intense(ly scary) gaze.

Lydia sighs. She gets to her feet and manhandles Stiles onto the bed next to her. They lie in companionable silence and it’s almost like it used to be back when Stiles was pack, before those fucking shifters blew into town and turned everything to shit.

Stiles starts talking to derail that train of thought. He still doesn’t like thinking about what happened too much. He tells Lydia about what went down in the woods with the faerie and she listens without jumping in. Judging by the lack of surprise in her expression—and by how fast she came home from wherever she was—someone has already filled her in.

She agrees to look into it using her own resources, resources being Deaton and his extensive collection of books on the supernatural. He nearly volunteers to help, but keeps his mouth closed even though he misses the days he spent lounging in the massive library in Deaton’s house with Lydia and Boyd, reading book after book on creatures they’d never heard of ‘just in case’. (Erica and Jackson used to laugh and call them nerds. Boyd always said they were secretly jealous of their ability to read.)

Stiles idly drums on his knees, ignoring the way Lydia is eyeing him, obviously wanting to say something else, but not sure how to proceed.

“I know after what happened-” she finally starts. Stiles flinches next to her. Her voice is quieter when she speaks again, “I know you think it’s better to stay away from us, but-”

“C’mon, Lyds,” Stiles groans. “That’s not why I’m-”

She cuffs him on the back of the head. “It’s rude to interrupt someone when they’re talking.”

“Sorry, Mom.” He almost immediately regrets the snipe. He’s having a bad enough week (year) without thinking about his mom on top of all this shit.

Lydia’s eyes turn soft, like she understands what he’s thinking.

“Scott and Isaac howl for you when we’re running on full moons,” she says with a hint of a smile.

It makes him laugh, but he feels better knowing he’s been missed. “What, and you don’t?”

Lydia raises her chin and sniffs. “Of course not.” Stiles can tell that she’s lying. “Jackson does sometimes though. Erica, too. Everyone but Boyd actually.”

“That bastard. He misses me, too. I know it.”

Lydia smirks. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“You’re probably right,” Stiles sighs. “Erica, though, that’s a surprise.” Lydia hums noncommittally. “I mean, considering how last time I saw her, she punched me.”

Lydia snorts, eyes crinkling in amusement. “You had it coming, you have to admit.”

“I’ll admit _nothing_.”

“Yo-” she breaks off mid-word, head tipping to the side. “Derek wants to know if you want him to start dinner.” Her mouth is twitching up at the corners like she knows something Stiles doesn’t.

Stiles narrows his eyes at her, but lets it go. If Lydia doesn’t want to tell, there isn’t a soul that could get it out of her. “That’s great, thanks,” Stiles says without raising his voice. Derek could hear him at a whisper from this distance.

“I stopped by the house before I came over here-” Lydia starts after another minute or two of silence.

“What do you mean, you ‘stopped by the house?’” Stiles interrupts, gaping.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Someone had to do it. None of the others were willing to step inside after you told them about the faerie. Wise move not telling Scott that little tidbit, by the way. I love him, but that boy can’t tie his shoes without telling Allison.”

“Right? And then she would’ve told her father and-”

“And he would have called in back up, as he is wont to do, and the town would be crawling with hunters by morning,” Lydia finishes for him, sighing. “We’ll have to ease him into it.”

“My thoughts exactly.” This is why Stiles loves Lydia. Why did he stop hanging out with her again? Oh. Right. Ignoring those thoughts. “Who called you back anyways? And also, where were you?”

“I went skiing with Jackson, which you would _know_ if you bothered coming around.” Stiles has to give her that one. “And Boyd called me back because since Derek is basically out of commission, I’m interim Alpha.” The Lydia he thought he knew—back when he was still in love with her— would have jumped at the chance to boss people around, but Lydia _now_ just looked uneasy.

“We’ll fix this,” Stiles says even though he doesn’t know if they can.

Lydia flashes him a grateful look. “I know we will.”

Stiles doesn’t think she quite believes it either.

She shakes it off. “So, the house is fine, completely rebuilt and fully furnished. At least this faerie has decent taste,” Lydia says grudgingly. “Derek will be pleased, though. He’s been talking about remodeling for a while. Well, he will be when he’s back to normal.” 

Her demeanor suddenly changes and her eyes are boring into him, bright and calculating. “You and Derek seem to be...getting along,” she says, mouth twitching.

Stiles wants to deny it, but _werewolves._ Walking lie detectors, the lot of them.                  

He picks at a string on his bed. “What does that have to do with anything?” he evades.

“We were thinking it’s probably best if Derek stays at his house,” Lydia says.

Stiles perks up. “That’s great! Do you want to take him now or…” he trails off.

He doesn’t like the way Lydia is staring at him, a mixture of pity and amusement.

“And since he seems to like you so much…” Lydia is no longer fighting the smile.

Stiles doesn’t want to understand what she isn’t saying. He tries not to, really he does. Damn his amazing brain.

“No, Lydia. No. I am not staying with Derek Hale in his magically refurbished house. No.”

“Yes, you are,” Lydia says definitively.

Stiles throws his hands up. “Why do I even bother speaking?”

“I honestly have no idea,” Lydia smirks. She sniffs in his direction. “I didn’t think you’d mind too much, anyway.”

“What the hell made you think that?” Stiles asks, incredulous.

“Oh, nothing,” Lydia says airily. She sniffs at him again. “Is that a new cologne?”

Stiles plucks at his shirt self consciously. “No, why? Do I smell bad?”

“You sure you didn’t try anything on today? You’re scent is a little _…_ different,” she says, smirking.

Stiles looks at her in confusion. “Wha-”

The sound of a breaking dish filters through the open door.

_“Uh…sorry!”_

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why.”

Lydia grins and slides off the bed. “That’s my cue,” she says, slipping on her shoes and grabbing her bag.

“What, why? Stay, have… _dinner,”_ Stiles says ominously, waggling his eyebrows.

Lydia wrinkles her nose. “No, thanks. Besides, I wouldn’t want to _impose,”_ she says, smirking.

Stiles blinks. “Impose? On what? It’s just dinner with Derek and my dad.”

Lydia studies him skeptically. “If you say so.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stiles huffs.

“Nothing. I really do have to go though,” she says. “Jackson and his abandonment issues,” she rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of affection there.

Stiles juts his lip out in an exaggerated pout. “Fine. Just leave me with the Stepford Wolf.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll see you soon. The pack’s gonna come by the house to bond with our Alpha. Have a fun dinner with Derek and Daddy Dearest,” she says sweetly.

He groans. He’s really not looking forward to having explain this to his dad. Thanks for the reminder, Lydia.

Lydia drags him up and wraps her arms around his neck. “It’s good to see you, Stiles,” she says, hugging him tight.

“You, too, Lyds.”

Derek shows up, looming in the doorframe. Stiles misses the quiet growl he gives at seeing Lydia with her arms around Stiles.

“Yeah, yeah, yours, I got it,” Lydia mutters under her breath, releasing Stiles. “Not like I can’t smell it. You could’ve pissed on his leg and it would've been more subtle.”

Derek makes a choked noise and turns bright pink.

“What was that, Lyds?” Stiles asks.

“Nothing,” Derek and Lydia answer at the same time without breaking eye contact. Fucking werewolves and their silent communication.

“Stiles says you’re my second.”

Lydia approaches Derek cautiously. “That’s right,” she says.

Derek stares at her, inscrutable. “I must trust you a lot.”

Lydia snorts. “More than the other idiots you’ve collected.”

Derek smiles at that, and Lydia looks taken aback. She looks over at Stiles and he just shrugs like, _I told you, it’s fucking weird._

“You’re leaving then?” Derek asks.

Lydia nods. “Jackson’s waiting.”

“Your…mate,” he says, looking to Stiles for confirmation. Stiles shrugs again. He doesn’t know how all that wolf stuff works.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Boyfriend.”

Derek flushes, like he’s embarrassed for not realizing. “Of course,” he says. “Tell Jackson hello for me.”

Lydia blinks in surprise and nods, turning to leave.

She turns back almost immediately, opening her mouth before closing it and opening it again, rinse, repeat.

“Can I-?” she says eventually, tentative, holding her arms out. Derek’s brows furrow in confusion and Lydia flushes, starting to ramble, “It’s just, I haven’t seen you in, like, a week and your scent is all weird and-”

Derek seems to understand what she’s asking because he scoops her up, going all cuddle monster once again and Lydia returns the embrace looking pleasantly surprised.

Stiles grins in the corner and sneaks a picture, immediately sending it to Scott. He has no doubts that Derek’s entire pack will have seen it by the end of the night.

The only downside is that real-Derek won’t be there to bitch about it.

The thought brings Stiles’ mood down a bit, and by the time Derek releases Lydia, he’s no longer smiling.

“We’ll talk later,” she tells Stiles.

She presses a kiss to his cheek before she jumps, laughing, out of the window— _werewolves_ —and this time Stiles’ doesn’t miss Derek’s low growl.

“Are they all like that?” Derek asks, sounding grudgingly fond.

“All day, every day,” Stiles says.

Derek sighs, shoulders drooping tiredly. “What was I thinking?”

Stiles throws an arm around his neck. “I wonder the same thing all the time.”

-

Bizzaro-Derek proves to be both helpful and nice.

It’s irritating.

He offers to continue cooking—he hadn’t gotten much further than chopping up the vegetables for the salad—though Stiles quickly learns that Derek can and will (did) burn a pot of water if he lets him. Stiles lets him help set the table instead because that’s safer than letting him near the stove.

Even more disturbing is that he’s funny. Not mean-funny like real-Derek and Stiles. Just funny. Happy. Sweet, even.

He can see himself being friends with this Derek.

And that bothers him because it feels like he’s somehow betraying real-Derek, the broody, asshole that likes throwing Stiles into things while issuing death threats. It feels _wrong_.

He shoos Derek to the living room when he’s finished with the table, not quite comfortable with the way Derek had been leaning against the counter watching him cook.

“Stiles,” Derek calls a little while later. “Stiles, how do you work your tv? I can’t-”

Stiles turns around and makes a strangled noise. Derek is bent over in front of his ancient tv, glorious ass on display for all the world to see.

“Uh, uhm, hold on. Let me just… turn this off.” He fumbles with the knob before finally managing to turn the burner off and trips over to Derek.

“You just have to- here, let me,” Stiles reaches over Derek’s shoulder and pushes the cable box’s power button. Derek shoots up, startled, spinning around and knocking them both over onto the floor.

Derek blushes down at him, mortified. “Shit, s-sorry, Stiles. I didn’t mean to-”

“No. It’s, it’s fine,” Stiles says, voice a little funny, even to his own ears.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks worriedly, eyes flickering down towards Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles licks his lips—it’s a nervous tick, sue him. “Yeah, fine,” he says hoarsely.

“We should get up,” Derek says, still staring at his mouth.

“Yeah,” Stiles nods. “Okay.”

Except they don’t. Stiles somehow ends up with a handful of ass and Derek’s tongue in his mouth—it couldn’t possibly be him that shoved _his_ tongue into Derek’s mouth, he hates the guy, remember—without quite knowing how he ended up in that position, but then Derek moans into Stiles’ mouth and suddenly Stiles no longer cares about silly things like how or why this keeps happening.

He’s starting to think that hate-sex is something he could totally be into (it totally counts as hate-sex even if this Derek doesn’t actually hate him at the moment) when his dad walks in.

Stiles is blushing and stuttering and shoving Derek off of him with clumsy hands, saying, “This isn’t what it looks like!”

Surprisingly enough, the sheriff doesn’t quite look like he believes him. Even more surprising, he doesn’t look upset, just oddly relieved, like he’s finally solved a puzzle that he’s been putting together for years.

“Son. Derek.” He stares at them wordlessly for a few minutes. “Well, I’m gonna go wash up. Dinner in five?” He gives Stiles a wide smile and leaves without waiting for an answer.

Aw, crap.

-

One very awkward dinner later, Stiles is staring at Derek who is, in turn, staring wistfully at the couch. Again.

He kicks Derek under the table.

“Ow.” Derek shoots him a betrayed look, leaning down to rub his leg.

 _Don’t even think about it,_ Stiles mouths. Derek huffs and crosses his arms.

The sheriff watches them in amusement. “So, this is why you’ve been moping about for the last six months?” Stiles tenses. “Because you thought I wouldn’t approve of your boyfriend?”

“Dad, he’s not my boyfriend,” Stiles mutters, embarrassed.

He unsuccessfully attempts to ignore the way Derek’s face falls in the seat across from him.

“Son, you know that I love you,” his dad says placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I know, Dad.”

“No matter what,” his father insists.

Stiles nods, staring guiltily at his empty plate.

“I mean, I forgave you for lying and hiding the existence of werewolves from me for two years, right?”

Stiles throws up his hands. “Oh, here we go again,” he mutters. “How many times do I have to tell you, Dad. I was keeping you safe!”

“Safe, shmafe,” his dad grumbles. His hand flexes tremulously on the table and then relaxes. Stiles pretends he doesn’t see. “Lot of good it did.”

They both wince. His dad gives him an apologetic look. “I didn’t mean-”

Stiles waves him off tiredly. “I know you didn’t. It's fine.”

Derek watches the two of them, confused. He raises an eyebrow at Stiles in a silent question, but Stiles just shakes his head.

He takes a breath and steels himself. “Dad, I have something I need to tell you.”

The sheriff nods and leans back in his seat. “Shoot.”

“There’s a little… situation.” His dad’s eyebrows start climbing and Stiles hurries to assure him. “No, not like that, it’s not dangerous!” He backtracks, “Well, at least we can’t really see how it could be dangerous yet. I’m sure you’ve noticed that Derek is acting a little… different?”

“Little less scowl-y, yeah.”

“WELLLL, there was an incident…”

“Stiles,” his father warns.

“Totally not my fault,” Stiles says, holding his hands up.

“For once,” his dad mutters. “Go on, tell me what happened.”

“Oh, nothing. A faerie decided to mess with Derek’s head a bit, is all.”

His dad shakes his head in sympathy. “Life doesn’t cut you many breaks, does it, kid?” he asks Derek.

“Sir?” Derek asks in confusion.

Stiles jumps in. “Hey, Derek why don’t you go take a shower or something so I can talk to my dad in private?” he asks bluntly.

Derek agrees easily. “Sure, no problem.” He flashes Stiles’ a smile and gives the sheriff a respectful nod before taking his dishes to the sink and leaving.

Stiles definitely doesn’t watch Derek’s back(side) as he walks up the stairs, nor does he watch as way that Derek strips his shirt off while he’s still walking said stairs. Really.

His dad coughs and brings him back to the present. “What’s really going on here, Stiles?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

Stiles waits until the shower is running to start talking. “Look, the faerie messed with some of Derek’s memories, I think it’s mostly the ones to do with the fire, but others, too. We don’t really know what the faerie’s end game was and we don’t know if there are triggers or how to get him back to normal. The pack thinks it’s best if we stay out at the house in the preserve because it’s more… private.” He winces. That can be taken more than one way, can’t it.

“And he might wolf out and go batshit,” his dad says.

Stiles nods slowly, waiting for the freak out. He’s kind of disappointed when it never comes. “That’s it?”

The sheriff shrugs. “It makes sense.”

Stiles scoffs. “Where’s the concern for your son’s safety?”

“I know you can take care of yourself.”

“Not against a full grown werewolf, I can’t.”

“I’ve seen you take on worse and come out of it alive,” his dad reminds him.

“Luck,” Stiles says, trying not to think about it. He fiddles with his napkin. “Anyways, this is completely different. Even if I _could_ somehow overpower Derek when- _if_ he goes crazy, it’s not like I can kill him. Not without getting torn apart by a pack of adolescent werewolves.” Maybe he could distract Derek by making out with him. In the event that he went loco, that is. Not under normal circumstances, of course. It’s not like real-Derek would be into that, anyways. Just the one that was faerie mind-fucked. Not that he cares.

“Would you want to?” Stiles glances up, startled. “Kill him,” his dad clarifies.

“Oh.” Stiles looks back at the paper in his hands. “No.”

His dad hums, considering. “Be careful, okay?”

Stiles groans. “Oh Dad, no. What you saw? That was just an accident, alright?”

“Right, an accident,” his dad laughs. “‘Help, I’ve fallen and can’t get my tongue out of Derek Hale’s mouth,’” he says in a high pitched voice.

“I do not sound like that,” Stiles says, exasperated.

“Do, too,” his dad returns because his dad is a fifty year old child. “That’s not what I meant anyways. Just,” he pauses and gives Stiles a significant look. “Be careful with him. That’s not the same Derek Hale we all know and fear.”

Stiles knows he’s right, about that not being the same Derek, at least, but all he says is, “Are you seriously not concerned about _my_ welfare?”

Derek comes out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist and leans over the banister, smiling. “Do I need to take a longer shower, or are you about finished?”

Stiles chokes on the excess of saliva that floods his mouth (he’s not drooling, okay, he has a glandular condition). “No. No, we’re, uh. Good.”

Derek’s smile turns into a smirk. “Good,” he repeats with a wink and then retreats to Stiles’ room.

Stiles avoids his father’s eyes, taking a large gulp of water in an attempt to put out the fire on his face.

“Something tells me you’ll be alright,” his father says drily.

Something tells Stiles he’s wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain’s Log May 4th 1:39 A.M. I went to see Iron Man 3 last night and IT WAS FUCKING AMAZING. Not that I'm biased or anything. Finally wore the Iron Man shirt I bought a few years back (I was saving it for this moment). It was totally worth the wait
> 
> Captain’s Log May 4th 7:28 A.M. Fun fact: I fucking hate olives. I only mention this because I’m eating a piece of cold pizza (yum) and eww olives
> 
> This might end up being longer than 6 chapters, but that’s what I’m aiming for

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me happy, but are not actually necessary. I’ll work for free lol T-T
> 
> I have a couple finished things if you want to read 'em. c:
> 
> And of course I spend a good majority of my life on [tumblr](http://livthelion.tumblr.com) :)


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